


Rage Against the Dying of the Light

by loyaltybindshim



Category: The Tudors (TV), The Tudors (TV) RPF, Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Historical, Multi, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:27:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6774532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaltybindshim/pseuds/loyaltybindshim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to love, but my hair smells of war and running and running."</p><p> <br/>WW2 AU of the Tudors. Sometimes you have to do what you want least to get what you want most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Majestic Proportions

**2 February 1940**

The resonation of her thick heels clunking against the cobblestone pavement raised many an attention, but Mary did not hoist her gaze to meet the scrupulous stares subjected unto her. Fallen leaves crunched beneath her step and and the morass, muddy underfoot of English potholes suckled her appropriately French heel as a babe would a mother, sending her stumbling out of the shoe with a slight gasp. Her free hand shot out to grasp the sleeve of the unforeseen personage passing through the busy street before her as she propelled forward.

“My!” She cried, the pad of her thumb sinking into the other’s elbow, “I am terribly sorry. Sir, if you would just hold–” 

Her reluctant rescuer merely grimaced, unclasping her grip and sending her back on her heels, and her foot well into the ground. “Ay, watch your way, city girl.”

Gathering her senses and mobility, Mary straightened her posture and wiped her hand down the front of her silken chest as the man brusquely bypassed her. She lifted her foot and agilely stepped back into her shoe, glowering at the mud sheathing her diaphanous sable stockings. Darting her eyes around, ascertaining that no unwanted onlookers were in the immediate vicinity, she bent her knee to further adjust her shoe, retrieving it from the mud in which it had plunged. She nodded at her quick work and uprighted. 

“ _London men_ ,” she seethed as her confidence withered, “would not know courtesy if it hit them square in the face.”

A tingling sensation coursed through her lithe body as she took a pace forward, as though she could feel the unsatisfactory leers following her every step. Many of those who worked on Jackson Street were not fortunate enough to possess a home, and albeit those who did reside in the borough were lucky enough to hold some amount of fortune even after the effects of the great war, a fragment of guilt penetrated at Mary’s skin as she pulled her cardigan over her well-heeled attire. 

It was all she had been left with, after all. 

Trudging down the unfamiliar street, a row of three-story brick boarding houses flanked by smaller white-frame houses aligning both sides of the road came into view. A few children dared to play outside, their laughter barely a lilt above the whipping February winds. She eyed them for a transient moment, and wondered if she had ever been so carefree and benighted. 

She half suspected she had, but was too young to remember it. Nevertheless, she conceded that blissful ignorance was not a friend that loitered long. 

Mary stepped in front of building number ‘3’ before ascending two steps, and firmly rasping her knuckles against the large, oak door. In a matter of moments, a woman – much younger than she had originally anticipated — opened the door, her smile nearly carving her features in a moiety. “Welcome!” She greeted, her face bright and sanguine as she reached for Mary’s satchel and heaved her in. Mary could only stand dumbfounded, taken aback by her gaiety and the tinny quality to her voice. “No sense in gathering flies, come on now, to the parlor I should think.” 

Mary ponderously entered with her trunks and assorted purses and multifarious reticules, shoving the door closed with her backside, appraising the woman with a gentle but conscientious eye. As her father always said,  _ the weightiest impression is the first,  _ and she liked to think herself a great judge of character. 

In a moment’s time the woman’s feet had her flitting away, drawing Mary in to follow her. 

But if the woman knew who she was at all, she could not be sure, as she scuttled down to the parlor and gestured to hang up her jacket there. She stripped her cardigan as the keeper of the home, she presumed, dangled her satchel on a corroded, rusted hook. “My brother-in-law James Stuart sent you a missive, I believe? I am Mary Tudor,” She announced, rooting her feet to the floor. Her company merely nodded firmly, a grin quirking in her direction.

Her brows drew together as the woman continued to walk briskly and freely deeper into the boardinghouse. “Oh, dear!” Mary found herself struck afresh by the ability of the woman’s aging body, and the incapacity of her own callow limbs as she followed as quickly as her jaded feet could carry her, “Where to, miss?” 

“This way, upstairs, to your room!” She abruptly stopped at the base of the stairs before turning to Mary, barely glancing at the girl. “We’ve several flights of stairs ahead of us. Allow me to take one of your trunks, perhaps? Unless you’d like to take a second trip.” She looked down at the bags, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “Crikey. Usually my girls do not pack so substantially.” 

Mary smiled sheepishly, rapidly agreeing to her proposal as her shoulders drooped and bags slipped from perspiring palms. “Thank you. They are awfully heavy, I must admit. If I may, though— you have found me at ever the disadvantage. You know my name, now, but I do not know yours.”

The boardinghouse keeper reached for one of her trunks, grinning still. She lifted the trunk to her bosom; head tilting to the side. “Oh, heavens! I live with so many young girls I have all but forgotten pleasantries still exist outside of Jackson street. Joan Larke: not as much as a stickler for formalities as a lady of my age ought to be, but you’ll learn to love me like the rest of my young-ins.” 

The woman’s sprightly mien did not fall out of line with Mary’s liking.

“You have children, then?” 

“Nearly twenty of them. And now, you’re one too.”

A color blossomed in Mary’s cheeks. “Mrs Larke, it’s a pleasure. I cannot express my gratitude enough.” 

“Oh, no, no, no– never Mrs. I’m not married. I have only my Wolsey to keep me company, and he’ll never wed. The girls call me Joan – you will do the same. Shall we?” She tipped her head up to the stairs.

Though she hadn’t the foggiest who Wolsey was, she found herself nodding in agreement, surmising that Wolsey was a suitor of the keeper. “And I. You will call me Mary, yes?” 

“Well, I’m not calling you madam if that’s what you were hoping,” she snorted. 

Accustomed to the best treatment money could buy, she was momentarily shocked by the flippancy she was subjected to, but did as Joan said without audible complaint and clutched her handbag to her chest as they hastily galumphed umpteen flights of stairs. Surely Joan did not—could not—make this trip on the daily. The copious, formidable climb was not one suited for anyone, much less in Mary’s heels, and the svelte curve of her calves began to ache and burn with each tread mounted. But to quibble would be to validate her brother and sister’s opines, and that she would never bend to. 

_ London life was not for Tudor ladies— it will take but one chipped nail to bring Mary back to heel…  _

A desperation to prove them wrong settled deep in her tummy as she voiced, “Have we much longer, miss?” 

Hearty laughter escaped Joan, “We’ve just barely begun. Oh, you’ll get used to it; not to worry.” 

She forced herself to regulate her breathing and continue on. Once they reached the dreaded top, Joan looked to Mary with a winning grin, her face flushed with a healthy vigor rare in winter months. “Here we are. This room will be yours,” she said, placing Mary’s trunk by the others. “These beds are occupied—lovely girls, they are—but this one is vacant. Will it do?”

Even if the world were to spin clockwise, she would not acquiesce to sleeping on a bed such as that. Near plastic-linen sprawled over a lumpy, threadbare mattress, and her throat swelled shut as she merely contemplated placing her head on the lamentable pillows gracing the foot of the bed.

She placed her hand over her chest, fiddling with the pendant resting on her neck as she surveyed the lachrymose sight. If only her father could see her now.

Mary’s gaze flitted around the cramped, airless quarter. By a hair, four beds wedged between two small chests; and the three occupied bunks were covered in custom linen and quilts. Attic windows faced the back wall, though they were clamped shut and corroded with dust and grime. A small book was placed upon one of the cupboards, along with a forgotten tea-cup. It gave a vacant appearance, as though someone lived here, but purposely left no trace of existence. 

She nodded rapidly, left with no other choice, as tears threatened to sting at the back of her eyes. “Yes, yes, thank you.” 

Joan brushed away the debris on the cupboard, reciprocating Mary’s nod. “Good,” she said slowly, her fists balled at her sides, “Very good. As of now, it’s one girl to a bed. But that number is apt to fluctuate in such dicey times.” 

She blanched at the prospect of sharing a bed with another woman, and turned to Joan with concern written clearly upon her features.  “And what is the maximum capacity to a room?” 

Joan looked upwards, deep in reflection. “The most we had was eight or nine – and Lord, it was in the summer heat, too.” 

She swallowed thickly, unable to imagine any more than two women living comfortably. “Well, who knows, like I always say. Dangerous times we live in. Now, I assume you’re all caught up with the monthly payments and chores? No issues?”  

She folded her hands together, “no, no I’m afraid not. James was admittedly rather concise in his epistle.” 

“Pity,” Joan sighed. “I do hate going over guidelines. Anyway, Mary, you pay me one pound and twenty-seven pence a week. Washing bed linens and cooking is included in the price. The house rules are posted down stairs, and there is a contract you will need to sign and adhere to, of course, which must be done by sundown tomorrow.”

Money was not an issue, with James and Louis on her side, but it would need to be mailed posthaste, she deduced. The little she brought with her would not cover three months’ rent. “Of course. I have some money, but I can ill afford to spend much without a job. I have come with every intention of procuring one.”

“I’m not surprised,” She said, “Many of my girls work a full week to keep up with wages. Perhaps they will show you the ropes. With Jane having left to the countryside, there might be an open position in Woolwich after all.” Again Mary felt lost as Joan bided a moment to think and run her eyes down Mary’s form. “Though I can’t imagine those arms know much labor.” 

Mary crossed her frail arms over her chest, “I am very capable, miss.” 

Joan grinned. “You have a fortnight before the first payment is due. And this chest here will be yours to store your belongings in for now. Is there anything else you’d like to go over?”

“No, I should like to get acclimated to the room first.” She forced a smile on her face and told herself she would not fail. After all, she would have Margaret Tudor to confess to if she did. 

Where were her silken sheets and gilt bed frame when she needed them most?

“I suggest you take a bath before the girls come home; there’s fresh water in the pitcher.” Mary got the idea that the opportunity to clean was not always provided with so many working women in one building. “Supper will be served at seven.”

When Joan excused herself, an emptiness which too closely resembled Mary’s heart filled the room. She turned, looked around the room, and reduced herself into a reservoir of unprovoked tears.

 

* * *

“ _Louis,_ ” Mary mouthed what she scribbled. “My dearest, Louis.”

No, no– that would never do. She balled up her sheaf of paper and placed it atop her thighs. Her Esterbrook hovered over the blank slate as she contemplated how to begin her letter without coming across as too mawkishly cheery– or too disappointed. If her beloved fiance knew of the desolation in her heart he would come for her at once, save her from the barren boardinghouse, and whisk her away to one of his grand bucolic estates. 

But with the way of the current world, he would never be able to pay for their grandiose wedding once the war was over if he came to her then, and she forced her words to flow neutrally– neither abundantly happy nor tragically melancholic.  

Louis was an older man, thin and frequently ill, and therefore he did not seek the glory of war as her brother. Instead he toured Britain on diplomatic and governmental duties, as well as business trips, as a previous lawyer and now a luminary representative in the House of Commons. He had been an active combatant in the battle’s bloody predecessor alongside her father. It had been the great war which originally brought Mary and Louis together in the form of a charity soiree held in recognition for fallen soldiers— or, as was known only in the mind of Mary and Henry Tudor, it was the quick wit of her father than had ensnared Louis Valois’ interest in his youngest daughter. 

Mary, nearly twenty years his junior, agreed to Louis’ proposal of marriage not a year into courtship. It was an agreement predicated on the idea that she would marry whom she loved when Louis died, and as it stood, Louis was a wealthy man—the Valois name had become synonymous with ‘prosperity’ in due course—and exactly what her father required to reinstate the Tudors in their former prestige after the effects of the war and her mother’s death. 

But with her father now dead and Mary’s name bracketed to Louis’, she could not welch on her promise and vowed that she would be happy as a rich man’s wife for as long as he may live.

Mary did not bear the cruelty demanded to wish a hastier demise on her intended, but she dearly hoped she would not spend many years in his bed—despite his intentions of procreating abundantly being explicitly clear. Furthermore, while her father had harbored his ill-will towards the Valois lineage, coupled with a lethal envy, Louis was genuinely kind to Mary and, ulterior motives aside, she generally sought to reflect his affection, though any cantilevered martial-warmth emanated from a less than genuine wellspring. 

However, it was Mary’s inner romantic that left an unsettled feeling in the pits of her stomach each time she thought of the dupe she tied Louis in, though it may have been unintentional at the time. As the days progressed, she tricked herself into believing she could truly love a man such as him, to diminish the underlying guilt which had plagued her. 

 

**LONDON, ENGLAND.**

**Louis Valois,**

 

> My dearest Louis, I promise to keep my letter brief. I know how busy you must be.
> 
> I am officially writing to you from my new quarters, which I share with three other young women. I have yet to meet them, for I arrived just this morning. How I thirst for a familiar face amidst the bleak midwinter to comfort me, but what a blessing it is that there are friends yet to be made. Thus far, my journey has been nothing short of eyeopening. London has become quite a dreadful place since my last sojourn with Father in Spring of 1935. I assume you’ve heard that many have begun to evacuate towns and cities again. If you ask me, those with an iota of sensibility will remain heedless of rumors and stay put where they are with their families. Nothing has happened and without hope of this perpetuated tranquility destruction will be widespread. 
> 
> I begin job hunting on this coming Monday, I suspect. You know what they say, a girl’s got to eat, and boardinghouse fees do not come cheap. I think to begin in Woolwich, at the Royal Arsenal, if that fails attempt a ROF, and then move on to pubs and bars if there is absolutely nothing to contend for— though I’ve heard rumors of a recent opening I hope to seize. Perhaps I might even work with you with all the experience I’ll surely garner when all is over and we are at last married. 
> 
> I will end my letter here, only to terminate my words on a happy, hopeful note. Times are perilous and plans uncertain, this I have been told numerous times, but I take comfort in fact that our union does not hang in the balance. I shall be yours through all obstacles.

Yours always, 

**Mary Rose Tudor.**

**P.S.** My pen fails to express the necessity of my soul for your presence, but know that I harbor a genuine and amaranthine longing for your warmth.

She picked up her pen, capped it, and pressed it to her chin in contemplation, continually mulling over the impression her words would deliver. Would he think her pitiful, too independent, or not independent at all? She could not be certain, and leaned back in her seat with a minute harrumph. After a moment of intense scrutiny, Mary folded her letter and situated it in a flavescent envelope. “Travel safely, and travel quickly,” she whispered, hoisting the wrapped letter and holding it against her lips. 

Laughter sounded from down the hall, and Mary’s feet to sprung to action. She put away her stationery, tidied up her dress, and tucked her missive underneath the lumpy mattress, attempting to adopt an air of cultivated nonchalance as three women poured into the bedroom.

One of the women– the tallest of three, and the only fair-headed at that – gasped, “oh! This must be her.” A smile flourished from her lips as she stepped forth and extended her hand to Mary. “Elizabeth Blount. How good it is to meet you.” 

Mary’s gaze traversed to the grease covering Elizabeth’s fingertips. She begrudgingly forced her hand, fresh from a bath, between hers, and nodded. “Mary-Rose Tudor. It’s a pleasure.” 

“Well, Mary-Rose. You’ll be sleeping next to me, it seems.” Elizabeth plopped down on her mattress. “This is my bed.  Try and keep to your side, though— and welcome to the room.”

“I suspect we’ll be seeing much of each other, then,” She commented uneasily, taping a bright smile onto her features as she turned to the other woman entering by the threshold. “Oh, hello. Hopefully I’ve not taken up too much room. I’m still in the process of unpacking, but I can move my things if you’d like.”

“Not at all, you’re no bother,” Another woman said as she meandered to her bed, sitting down and rubbing her knuckles. “Aren’t we a sight for sore eyes?” She chuckled, wiping at a patch of oil. “Catherine Brandon. And this is Anne.” 

Elizabeth was the prettiest, by far, with her light eyes and tendrils of gold, but Catherine also held some beauty. Her hair was windblown and untamed, her nose nearly snubbed, lips pursed and gaze enigmatic. She was also incredibly short, which gave Mary a jolt of satisfaction. 

“Anne Boleyn, actually,” She emended, picking her book off the counter and settling down with it. “But just Anne will also do. Occasionally called ‘the other Boleyn girl’ but you can’t prove anything.”

Mary canted her head, unable to gauge Anne’s character and appearance. Something about her seemed guarded, but like the light at the end of a long tunnel, she was distant enough to seem interesting, and something beneath her exterior gave her an aura of desirability. A piercing sort of beauty. “Anne. A pleasure, truly.”

“Have you just come from work?” 

“Yes,” nodded Catherine. “It was particularly brutal today—there was a small ignition, I think. Nothing major this time, but I still fear it. Did you hear it, Elizabeth?” The blonde woman said that she had not, and a little gasp of apprehension died in the column of Mary’s throat. “Really? My ears still ring. Nevertheless, I feel guilty complaining, with so many people in the grave and off to war and I in my bed.” 

“A lousy old bed at that,” Elizabeth rejoined, lifting her hair from her shoulders as she began to bind it. 

Catherine bit down on her bottom lip, eyes rolling upward to gaze up at her. “That does make me feel better. Alright, so, I’ll say it: I hate every minute in that God forsaken factory, and when this war is over and the allies have won, I’ll burn it down myself. Wouldn’t that be splendid?”

Mary repressed a frown as Catherine said this, folding her hands underneath her knees and taking a seat on the frumpy mattress. Factories were a vital part of Britain’s economic system—this anyone with a brain between their shoulders ought to know. And, to add salt in her wounds: if she hadn’t already nursed her own reservations regarding the factories, the women’s small-talk rose her fears to a fever-pitch, though she did not allow a second thought to cross her mind. 

Mind over matter. A positive outlook persevered against all.

“Sadistic, too,” Anne mused, not looking up as she flipped through pages of a weather worn novel. Mary squinted, and ascertained she was reading a Brontë book. “But if you need an accomplice, you know where to find me. I could use a little adventure to beguile the hours.”

“Likely.” She rolled on her back and crossed her hands over her stomach. “I’m not always this brazen, Mary. Right?” 

Elizabeth snorted, dabbing perfume on her slender neck, “only on Wednesdays.” 

“But, listen. It’s— wait.” Catherine, startled with a sudden bolt of energy, sat up. She turned to Mary. “Do you work? Somewhere?”

She shook her head, ruby curls bouncing over her shoulder. “I’m looking.” 

“Oh, really? Anywhere near?” 

“Woolwich. If not, I’ll test my luck with a Royal Ordinance.” 

“And if not…?” 

“I figure there has to be work. But if not, local pubs— if there’s anyone around, that is.”

Catherine agreed. “There’s plenty. People need to eat.”

“And failing that? If there’s no job to be had?” Anne prodded, her narrow eyes burrowing into Mary’s skin.

She offered a little smile. “Prostitution.” 

Anne snorted, pleased by the answer. “You’ll get a position at Woolwich. Don’t let Catherine get into your head; I work at Woolwich. We don’t exactly have women supplicating at our gates and Mr Boothman will agree to anyone with…” Her dark eyes lowered. 

“…With?” Mary echoed.

Elizabeth snorted. “Take a look at his trousers when you walk into his office. Some men need to be bended to agree; Alexander Boothman needs to be bent over.”

A laughter erupted from Catherine’s throat. Once she had quieted down, she leaned forward, beckoning Mary, “When do you plan on going, anyway? We can walk with you. What a sight we shall be—a quartet of lovely women off to work! How times have changed.”

“I think this Monday,” She vouchsafed. “I want to go as soon as possible. Do you know what the hours are?” 

Anne set her book aside, unable to concentrate with the constant chatter, and scooted closer, “Eight am until six pm, weekdays; and eight am to one pm on Saturdays.”

By the look which touched her crafted features, Mary appeared shellshocked at the admittance. “You work on Saturdays?”

Anne and Catherine shared a look. “How else would we get paid? The weal of our country is at stake.”

Having hailed from money, Mary could not sympathize with them, but offered an understanding, nigh pitying, nod nonetheless; despite the fact that she herself would too join the fish of unfortunate women working on the days in which the Lord allocated for rest.

“I can go with you. Don’t worry,” Anne promised, a comforting smile directed her way. “Everyone who works there is uncommonly nice, so long as they get their rations. And Boothman is… just a man. He hardly bothers us unless provoked.”

That night, after Mary had plopped her letter in the mailbox, around twenty women between the ages of fourteen and thirty settled around the dinner table, and scarfed down a pot of soup and bread. Omnipresent chatter began to flow once the lion’s share of dinner had been consumed, and hunger-pains reduced. 

Anne rubbed her hands together, remnants of flour clinging to her long fingers, and leaned over to whisper to Mary, “Joan uses all of our combined quantum to prepare supper. She might not be the next Mabel Claire, but she gets the job done, no?” 

Charmingly did she grin back at Anne. “Indeed she does. I could not cook to save my life, alas.” As if to say ‘what can you do?’, Mary chuckled with a slight shrug.

Saucers became of her large, dark eyes. “You don’t know how to cook?” 

“Well. I never learned, but I suppose there isn’t much of a difference.”

“Your mother never taught you?” 

“No.” Mary lowered her chin, surprised by the burst of pity. “Did yours?”

“Oh, yes!” She exclaimed, clasping her hands underneath her chin, as memories replayed in her mind. “My sister and I were never content unless we were doing something. So, my mother put us to good use in the kitchen. We never made anything extraordinary, but I can whip up a dish or two, and my brother was quite taken by our weekly tea parties if I do say so myself.”

While Anne spoke fondly of her youth, Mary’s grin broadened good-naturedly, but not without a spark of jealousy in her heart. Well did she remember the disconnectedness from her mother in childhood. Though Elizabeth Tudor’s death had affected all, Mary was exempt from all lamentations, due to the distant and vague nature in which mother and daughter shared in juvenescence. 

“This is a travesty, Mary!” She declared. “It must be fixed. At once.” 

“It has never been a problem ‘til’ thus,” she retorted. 

“And when the men come back?” Her voice lowered. “They will expect us to cook, and clean, and birth children.” 

Louis would never expect her to cook. Such a duty would be parceled out between consigned cooks and maids befitting of a Valois mansion. Wild, dancing eyes narrowed at Anne, “my husband will never expect me to cook.”

“Can you be sure? They surely won’t do it for themselves.”

“I can. I cannot speak for the whole of the male population, but Louis would much rather see my time be put to better use.” 

A slender brow rose. “Louis?” 

“My fiancé. Louis Valois.”

“Valois? Is he French?” 

“Oui.” 

Roses bloomed in her sculpted cheeks. “Do you speak?”

Mary nodded. “ _ Fluently. _ ”

“ _ Merveilleux! _ ” She cried, “It has been too long since I’ve spoken in the French tongue. Joan forbids it, in fear of me speaking ill of any of the women.”

Anne spoke in French, and thus Mary retorted in the same fashion: “Have you given her the indication that you would?”

She chuckled, a hand raising to her lips. “My sister was ever the troublemaker when she was here. Always insinuating quarrels and drama. I’m afraid her sin is by proxy mine, by blood.”

“Oh, I’m sure!” Mary jested, tart. “It is always the French. Are you..?” 

“I’m afraid not. I have nothing but English blood in my veins, but a self-proclaimed Parisian at heart.”

Grinning, she announced determinedly, “You would love Louis… He is so distant from his family, addled by politics and governmental obligations I guess, and I sometimes fear he has all but forgotten how to speak in his mother-tongue.”

“Girls,” Joan interrupted, “If you cannot share your words with the table, they should not be spoken.” 

There was a pause, and Mary withheld her breath as Anne astutely replied, “We were merely discussing Mary-Rose’s betrothed. After all, French is the language of love. It suits, non?”

“Betrothed?” Joan’s brows flew to the her hairline.  “You did not tell me you were spoken for. Let us see the ring, child.”

“No ring,” she lied, knowing it was hidden well beneath her trunks. “We pawned it before the war.”

“How awful,” Anne muttered, her gaze lowering to Mary’s lap, noticing the way the young woman suffocated her digits with a dense grasp. “Was it marvelous? I imagine it was.”

“Oh, yes. He has a wonderful taste in cuts. A Midas touch, really. It was a Burmese ruby, intended to replicate my hair.” 

Her lips lift swiftly. “Sounds beautiful.” 

Mary  swallowed thickly, before gnawing on the last bit of bread meant to chase down guilt. How could she possibly be persuaded to flaunt the ten carat, resplendent engagement ring to those who paid rent by the skin of their teeth? She could scarcely credit her understanding in the matter, but figured it was best she kept her mouth shut. 

A soft voice from the end of the table pierced through Mary’s reverie, reverting her attention to the youngest woman at the table—although to call her a woman seemed unfair. She was not much older than fifteen, a poor little mite, with her hair plated in two dark braids, oily and tied in red ribbons. “Is he a prince?” 

Mary’s forehead drew together. Leaning forth, she determined whether or not she heard the girl correctly. “I’m sorry; pardon me?” 

“ _ Oh, Katheryn. _ Don’t pay her any mind, Mary, she’s just daydreaming again. Thinks she’s gonna be a princess, dontcha?”

She represses a frown, and pursed her lips, a transient silence following. “I have never been against endorsing dreams, Miss Joan. What did you say, Katheryn?” 

“Is he a prince, the man you love?” 

She produced a tight-lipped smile. A question of good omen, but the sword attached cut deeply. “Yes,” she murmured, “of moderately majestic proportions.” 

The table erupted into a crowd of laughter and raillery succeeding Mary’s words. Anne’s lips pinched into a smirk—a parody of a smile—as her sharp eyes raked over Mary’s twisted hands once more.

“We’ll talk later,” she remarked, once again, in French.

 

* * *

 

**3 September 1939**

She remembers the night unlike any other. Her skin was bronzed and the foliage in front of her father’s country seat was sun-browned. It was a Sunday, and she sported the frilliest, most ostentatious hat she could find in her late mother’s closet, and had languished outside for the majority of the blessed day, leaving only for church and demanding that an alfresco lunch be brought out to her on the lawn.  

Her thumb pressed against her brother’s bare shoulder blade as she murmured across the light zephyr, “father is back today. I told you he would come back.” 

“Yeah. Just wait till his whiskey bottle is full again,” Henry retorted, pulling his cap over his freckled face.

Mary glowered, her hat tickling her warmed skin as her head canted to the side. Her brother had been greatly affected by their mother’s death, and for a time she truly feared the best part of him died with her. She was old enough to understand why her brother grieved, but too young to know the late woman he lamented.

She jutted out her chin and furled her nose. “I still win.”

Delilah, Mary’s consigned au pair, called for the children from the porch. The Tudor children shared a look; a trademark of mischief in their eyes and rubies falling down the tendrils of their hair. She pushed her brother down as she found her footing, twin daggers for legs racing into the house, falling over Henry’s back and pressing a light hearted kiss to the bump of his spine. His skin was heated beneath her lips. The house felt abnormally cold as she padded in, barefooted.

Delilah led Mary into the foyer as Henry made a beeline for the kitchen. As she entered, her father’s tie was rumpled and his coat discarded, so he stood, in the middle of the foyer, hunched over a radio, a tinny voice emitting, with his waistcoat unbuttoned. The picture of elegant dishevelment. She dashed towards him, wrapping her supple limbs around his hips. 

“I am speaking to you from the cabinet room at 10 Downing Street…” 

As Neville Chamberlain’s baritone voice emanated from the radio, her father pressed his tumbler of whiskey against his cleft-chin, and his daughter became beneath his notice. Tears filled his eyes. Mary could not understand why, but held onto him anyway. 

“Father,” she said, her voice merry and sprightly, “we once went to Downing once. Wasn’t it marvelous – you, mama and I?” 

“Shh, Mary,” Henry silenced her. “It’s the Prime Minister.” 

“Mr Chamberlain?” She questioned.

He nodded. 

Though Mary had heard her father imprecate Neville Chamberlain’s name more than once, she hushed up, and forced her hands in her pocket, contemplating Henry’s whereabouts. Would he play with her when this was over? He almost never agreed to hide-and-seek anymore. 

Chamberlain resumed his speech, “This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that, unless we hear from them by 11 o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.”

She swallowed thickly, wondering how much more of her time Chamberlain would take, as her thoughts drifted to dessert before leaping back to Delilah, who would undoubtedly beguile the afternoon by drinking tea and dealing out a deck of cards with Mary.

An obnoxious beeping sound coming from the radio garnered her attention, snapping her head upwards to meet her father’s crestfallen gaze. He gave her a small, assuring smile, and she returned it with the largest grin she could muster. His lips twitched ever so slightly before he looked away.

It was not until the Prime Minister uttered Britain’s plans for joining with France and deploying to the aid of Poland, who so bravely resisted the wicked and unprovoked attack upon her people, did Henry Sr align his posture and allow his tumbler to fall to the floor, whiskey imbuing priceless Danish carpets. 

“Daddy?” She whispered, as Delilah began to sob behind her. “Father what’s happened? War?”

“ _War!_ ” He parroted, leaning forth to scoop her up and swing her dainty body in a circle. His eyes were frantic and dolorous, a prominent red agitation rimming his water-line. “War, my dear daughter. Go and get your brother, your sister, they must be here! Oh, Delilah, do shut up!” 

A fist balled in her stomach as he lowered her to her heels, feeling as though something so close to attaining had now become impossible. 

Later that night, all surrounding neighbors gathered in the road, going over the events of the morning with an amalgamated sense of dread and a scintilla of excitement which could not be ignored amongst the younger parties of gentlemen— not excluding Henry Tudor, Mary’s brother, who dreamed of war as an old friend, coming to him late at night and carving a surefire pathway to glory. 

How wrong he was, Mary thought, to think that glory was anything but immortality.

When the war officially began, Mary’s father did not have to be told that there had already been several raids. But with a dagger in his hand and a gut addled with whiskey, Henry Senior would never see the dawn of the second great war. 

* * *

 

**5 February 1940**

Louis Valois tapped the end of his Colombian cheroot against the edge of the lacquered, wooden table, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose as he scanned over his fiancee’s letter. Her girlish handwriting was scarcely legible to his strained, debilitated eyes, and her words were mostly superfluous and redundant as it stood, but he garnered an immense amount of joy upon ascertaining her happiness.

Nevertheless, he slid open his desk and produced a smart pen. 

He would not write to Mary, but to a man who owed him many unpaid favours.

Louis’ head snapped upward as his secretary’s wife sauntered in, a snicker tugging at the corner of her voluptuous lips. “Anything important?” She approached, rounding the back of his chair. Leaning down, she pressed her mouth against the shell of his ear, and sprawled her hands over his chest. “You seem distraught.” 

“No, nothing of import.” He took a final drag from the cigar and pulverized the tip against the crystallized ashtray resting on his desk. 

“Boothman?” Her brow quirked as her eyes ran over Louis’ sheaf of paper. “I have never heard you speak of a Boothman.” 

“There are many names I keep out of our meetings, _mon cheri._ ” 

“Fair enough. Who is he, though? I should like to know now that you have deliberately withheld his identity.”

“No one worthy of mention.” He paused, and erected his posture. “Darling, I am exceedingly busy. May we continue this tête-à-tête at a later date?”

Broad lips pressed into an unwavering line. “Did Mary write to you?” 

“She did,” he confirmed, his fiancee’s profile displaying in his mind.

With her thumb and forefinger, Georgia cupped his chin and drew her lips to his. “Send her my best,” she murmured hotly against his mouth, breath fanning against his incipient stubble, before pulling away. “We’ll speak later— please do not forget. There is something we must discuss.” 

“I am a man of my word.” 

Once Georgia had excused herself, Louis set about writing his letter to Mr Boothman of Woolwich and the Royal Arsenal. 

**Alexander Boothman,**

> It has been an age since we last conversed but I assume you have not forgotten the loyalty and finances I once bequeathed to your campaign. In reparation for my generosity, I must ask that you grant my intended wife a position at your emporium when she visits this coming Monday. She cleaves to the notion that women must work, and for the same wages as men at that, and Woolwich seems to me as the safest location to execute her fanciful plans. I assume you have chosen a South-London location for the same reason. 
> 
> I also must demand that all privileges be granted to her, and that her wage be elevated from the habitual seven shillings to nine. In this envelope I have attached a likeness of Mary, my fiancee. Keep an eye out for her, and surely in time you will be rewarded once more.
> 
> And before I conclude this letter of hearty recommendation, allow me to express myself in no uncertain terms: If anything should happen to the future Mrs Louis Valois, you will be the one to pay for it. Let us not forget what gave birth to your revolution in the first place.
> 
> My future and happiness lies in your palms.

**L. Valois.**

Once he had completed the final dip of his ink, Louis’ secretary stepped in, lowering his head in reverence. “Mr Valois.” 

“Ah, Walter. Come in.” Louis’ smile broadened as he took several, determined paces forward. “What can I do for you?” 

“Mr Churchill, sir— just rang. Said he could not make the appointment this afternoon and beseeched you to reschedule.” 

“Unreliable, impetuous man!” Louis roared, forcing himself to his feet and chucking his stationary from his desk. “I am enraged!” As his aging spine began to ache, he gripped onto the edge of the desk, his knuckles whitening. “Let me tell you this, Walter,” he began, a finger pointed in his secretary’s direction, “if that man, that odious, untrustworthy man, thinks he can get ahead without my explicit favor, he is much mistaken.” 

“Of course, sir.”

“He is opposed by all eminent, reactionary politicians and attorneys— I am his only notable ally, God dammit, and he dares test me! He is a stubborn man and his opposition to the Indian self-government is risible. He switches parties, his involution in the abdication crisis should have put his career in the grave, done with— but here he is, time and again reneging on our previously-discussed appointments! And above all, he sees no merit in appeasing Germany, as we have always done. And now there is a war upon us, to ravage our country more absolutely than the last. Britain does not work in inscrutable ways, Walter. We depend on a systematic substratum which has always served us well. The fatherland would cease to subsist if order was not followed and obeyed. If God didn’t have a special fondness for the bastard Churchill, I tell you, with no qualms for political-correctness, he would not be where he is today.”

Louis, a stern conservative, was not originally taken by Churchill’s determination. But it seemed to him, in that precious time which had altered a nation, one would hitch their wagon to whatever moon if it shone bright enough. But many of the common-folk, and those loitering the streets of London, admired Churchill’s energy – which Louis could also find himself at fault for doing – and courage. His singleness of purpose. But Louis was not of the opinion that Britain cease to survive without him. He was simply the right man at the worst time—a time of desperateness Louis himself was not exempt from.

A look of concern crossed the mealy-mouthed Walter’s face. “What is there to be done, sir?” 

His jolts cracked as he steadily lowered himself into his seat. “There is nothing to be done.” 

“Nothing?” 

He sighed. “Nothing.” 

“Surely there must be.”

“You tell that man, if he wants my money, if he wants my time, if he wants my support and aegis,  he may well have it, but he will need earn it as any other scrounge for power. I expect no gallantry in disaster such as this, but I will not be made a joke out of. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

** 6 February 1940 **

 

** My beloved Henry,  **

> Attached in this letter are a few scarves Margaret made for you out of Alpaca wool. I have even attempted my hand at making one, but I’m sorry to say the result was rather pitiful, as you will soon see. I fear (and hope) crocheting will not be in my future. Although, again, I’ve been waiting a month for your reply, which is an inexcusable wait when you are so near. I have not the slightest if you will even receive this letter, but I have heard no news of a deployment yet. So much has changed and the only person I find comfort in has abandoned and forsook me. You needn’t tell me every detail of your unit and plans of action, I merely desire that your existence and wellbeing be reassured. 
> 
> That aside, London was beautiful today, and I write in celebration of frosty mornings and sun warmed afternoons. There was barely any rain and the keeper of the boarding house — Joan Larke, who you would very much like — made tea. Three kettles were finished by forenoon. Later that day, one of our girls announced her plans to join V.A.D., and everyone was all very proud. Could you imagine me joining? I can’t cook or nurse. The soldiers would be better of without me, I should think. 
> 
> But continuing on that subject, the most wonderful thing has occurred to me. One of the girls has promised to teach me how to cook. Anne is the closest thing to a friend I’ve procured during my time in London, and because of her I will soon be permitted in the kitchen without a fire warning attached to me. I swear to you I will make you anything you like once she teaches me… if you, Henry, promise me to write back more than thrice a year. I don’t want to have to threaten and bully you into responding to your dearest and most beloved sister, but _just know_ there is a very belligerent fist with your name on it ready to be administered at any time. 
> 
> I have been thinking of you and your sacrifice lately more than ever. I want you to know Ivery proud of the way you selflessly defend your country. Send my love to all those who have naught & please promise me you will not forget who I am in contingencies.
> 
> Do tell me if there is anything you’d like me to send in my next letter. There is no feat too large. 

** Most sincerely,  **

** Mary-Rose. **

 

* * *

 

** 8 February 1940  **

Mary had received a letter that morning, and with leonine speed she had flung herself to mailroom and ripped the envelope apart. Disappointment filled her gut when Louis’ name was printed on the return slip, as she had hoped it was Henry, although she knew so speedy a reply could not be possible. 

Her brother served for the First Division, originally known as the Mobile Division in early 1937, which was currently situated in the United Kingdom on anti-invasion duties. She feared his imminent leave, although her worries had been quieted many a time by his gentle touch and a brotherly tease. No talk had been made on behalf of deployment, but even Mary had to know that the prospect grew potent. Chamberlain himself also proclaimed that were was no commitment to send an expeditionary force to France, but if she had inherited anything from her father—it was her lack of trust in the Prime Minister. Soon after such a comment was made, 58,000 men of the British Expeditionary Force had been transported to France. 

This she could easily forget, but Louis’ letter she could not ignore, and despite a settling disillusionment, she hastily scanned her eyes over his neat calligraphy. 

** Dearest Mary,  **

 

> My heart inundates with gaiety to hear of your contentment and ease; and your struggle to write tersely has never pleased me so greatly. 
> 
> Have you met your roommates yet? Do tell me about them. I relish hearing of your life if I cannot presently be apart of it, and I drift to sleep counting the days until you are in my arms and I in yours… the days until you are my wife not only in my heart and soul but in recognized documentation. 
> 
> Yes, I have heard the news of London, but I too remain heedless of it. I have also heard many a good thing about the decorous and bustling Woolwich. I earnestly hope you find many happiness in it as a place of intermit employment, but do not fool yourself into thinking you will continue working once the war is over. As the mother of my children, I expect an attentive and dutiful wife to preside over my estates and next-of-kin.
> 
> I must also remind you that the Valois names comes as a right of passage once obtained. Never fear to use it in times of difficulty or in the face of struggle, when times are as hairy as they undoubtedly are. I fear for your safety daily without anyone to protect you. Be subservient, you are a woman, but do not allow yourself to receive the treatment Woolwich might impose on any other common gentlewoman, for you are my finest and most genuine possession, of which I hope to never lose sight of. 
> 
>  

** Best of wishes, and all of my love.  **

_ L. Valois. _

 

A sweat broke out on her cambered porcelain forehead as her throat sealed up, a thick wad of spit occluding her airway. She so detested when Louis mentioned children, for though she wished to have as many daughters and sons as her narrow waist could bear, she did not want for them to be of Louis’ blood. He was an older man, and although sprightly in nature, his body was not in the shape many allegedly claimed his robust youth had mirrored… The simple thought of making love to him induced an uprising of bile in her throat. 

Crumbling the missive in her hand, she stored it away underneath her pillow, and reached for a pocket-mirror to spruce up her countenance from imminent distraught.

Once opened, her face reflected in the circular mirror both splintered and cracked. Spread out like a spider’s web, a thousand crystallized reflections of herself were painted on infinite and fine shards, erupting into a lucent torrent of glass. 

“For shame,” she muttered, clasping the shattered contraption shut.

Mary retreated into a cocoon of silence as she made do with what she could, blindly adjusting at her frock and hair. Adorned in modest attire, her dress resembled the color of an overripe plum, whilst her silken copper locks tumbled in waves down her tapering spine. She ignored the ripple of fear coursing down her body, and jutted her chin outward in sheer determination. 

She had spent the last six odd days unpacking her items and accustoming herself to the ways of the boarding house. Visitors were permitted during the weekend, and she had the pleasure of meeting Elizabeth’s mother and acquainting herself with George Boleyn, who proved graciously kind, but during the weekdays the girls headed off to the factories until dusk, and by lonesome Mary kept Joan company with stories of home life. Joan too understood the woes of doting a man—for Mary could not consciously utter her ‘love’ for Louis—married to his post. Thomas Wolsey, whom Joan had loved for nigh on a decade, traveled the realm under the jurisdiction and patronage of the royal family, and paid visit to Joan only by accidental or coincidental means.

At night Mary wept for all that she left behind and that which would never be obtained again, but the days proved fruitful, and she felt positive that the war would not endure for more than a year or two.

“Are you ready?” Anne inquired as she stepped in, hoisting an apple to her lips.

Today was the day she would march into Boothman’s office and _demand_ a job.

She reached for her reticule, slinging it over her shoulder. “I am now.”

“We have plenty of time. You don’t have to rush.” 

“I’m not rushing,” She assured, nerves coruscating in her toes and fingertips. “Let’s go.” 

“Whatever you say…” Anne wrapped a jacket around her narrow shoulders and gave a curt nod. Together, they careened down the steps, long hair flowing behind them; the rhythmic peel of shoes tapping against wood resonating within the walls of the strait staircase. A sudden rush of cold pierced Mary’s skin as they reached the foyer. 

Joan passed by, lugging around a basket of laundry, and paused as she descried the girls. “Oh! Just who I wanted to see. I wish you the be—” A sudden, deafening cry detonating from the parlor interrupted Joan’s words. Anne looked to Mary, her expression equally as perplexed, before the trio made a dash for the room in which the cry had erupted. 

“Elizabeth?” Joan bleated, falling into the parlor. “Elizabeth what’s happened?” 

In unison, her gaze and heart dropped. The fair woman hunched over a box of stationery, clothing, and a lone badge, packaged neatly together, and her fingers held onto a letter with the grip of death. Catherine Brandon tightly wove her arms around Eliza, and tucked her head under her chin; fingers running down the length of her golden tendrils.

Mary knew that the box could only contain the items of a fallen soldier. 

Joan wrapped her hands around her throat and cautiously approached. “Oh, my sweet dear… No use in tears.” Her eyes followed Mary’s line of vision, and she gracefully dropped to her knees at the settee. 

Anne gave Mary a small nudge, mouthing: “we have time.” 

She stepped further into the room, whilst Mary remained at the threshold, ephemerally wondering if waiting about would jeopardize her job interview. 

“My poor, poor boy,” Elizabeth sobbed, unrestrained tears staining her words. Her lips formed a word, but no sound followed—like a lion who makes to roar but only yawns. 

“Who? Elizabeth, who has died?” 

Catherine looked up at Joan, her eyes narrowing. “Harry,” She snapped. 

The name bursted dams open, and once it had been uttered, Elizabeth’s spine raked with more tears. The woman who Mary thought the most beautiful in Britain just days ago cradled her knees to her ribcage and wept as if no one watched, inciting tears of her own to pool in Mary’s pale irises. 

“Her son,” Anne mumbled to Mary. “Only a boy, he was.” 

Pressing her hand against her stomach, Mary nodded as an air of melancholic solemness swept over the room like a raging pestilence. She blinked at the tears that threatened to spill, noticing—in her watery gaze—that many others submitted to the sobs which Elizabeth heaved. 

At a standstill, the accumulating women could only loiter and watch Elizabeth she cried until her eyes could withstand no more. Catherine calmed her with several inaudible whispers, running a hand down the ridges of her spine.

Once she found a point of calmness, she explained, “A Panzer—somewhere in Africa— exploded ‘round his foxhole.” Continually stuttering, she allowed herself as much time as needed before she resumed, “His things… are all here. This is everything he had. Died honorably. But no— no body. They couldn’t even find his rosary. The krauts, they did this. Did this to him and me. They killed my boy. How could they? How could they do this?” Catherine forced her head under her chin again. “He was a schoolboy. Never held a gun.” 

Her voice tapered off into silence, and the bond which the women had formed around her began to dismantle as morning bells sounded around the city. 

“I’m sorry, we have to go,” Anne urged. “Catherine, take care of her.” 

Joan nodded in deep understanding, “I’ll see you out.” 

She picked herself up from her spot rooted to the floor, and joined the two women at the door. It looked as if Joan had aged ten years in a matter of minutes, a deep crease forming between her spare brows and around her broad lips, which were fixed in a firm line. 

Anne reached forth and drew the women in a tender embrace. “This too shall pass.”

“No. It will never pass. The loss of a child never heals properly.” She reached up to cup her forehead, forcing a smile which anyone within a mile radius could discern the falsehood behind. “But, as I was saying earlier: good luck, Mary. My best of well wishes to your endeavor. And Anne, do try and occupy your mind with other things.” 

“Will do,” Anne assured, releasing her old on Joan and wiping a hand down her wrinkled dress, covered in stitched brocade.

Mary waggled her fingers in goodbye as the door opened and she made to step out. “Is there anything we can bring back?” 

“A job offer, _perhaps._ ” 

In spite of the moment, a solid row of pearlescent teeth manifested beneath her elevated lips. From Joan’s words did she inherit a sense of care, not unlike that she garnered from Delilah or her brother, Henry. She surely meant it when she said the women at her boardinghouse were her children just a week ago. It made perfect sense that she would allocate a great part of Elizabeth’s jeremiad to herself. 

The brisk February wind enveloped Mary in a gelid blanket as they trekked out into the morning dew, gooseflesh prickling at uncovered skin. The cold was not enough to penetrate and rattle the marrow in her bones, but it added a pep to her walk as she scurried to keep up with Anne’s faster strides. Pulling her well-worn cardigan over her slender shoulders to allay the bitterness in the air, Mary looked over at her company, noticing her inky gaze was lost in an altered dimension as they strolled.

Whilst Mary was at sixes and sevens with her own mind, debating whether or not to spark a more jaunty colloquy, Anne said: “Did you know Eliza’s son was born yellow?” 

“What?” Mary replied, a laugh to her words. 

“A canary baby. Cross here,” She brusquely demanded, allowing a car to pass before walking across the street. 

It was not the first time Mary had heard the phrase “canary” used derogatorily. Those who handled sulphur, which was used as a less expensive supplement, in explosive cavities during the great war were left yellowed and ill. It was not known until many years had passed that the women’s children would also be born with the defect. Luckily, the Tudors had been relatively unscathed; boasting the same porcelain, milky skin which had always been theirs to bloviate. 

After they crossed, Mary pressed: “So what happened? To Harry.” 

“Ah,” She sighed, “Apparently Harry was born as fit as a fiddle—the pigment didn’t bring any unwanted shortcomings other than the obvious. So, she brought in a physician to examine him, but he told her that there was nothing she could do. The color faded a sometime after that.” 

“And they never investigated in to it?” She shook her head. “Well, it’s still better than being green with envy.”

A laughter spilled from Anne’s shapely lips, like a sweet summer wine caressing the rim of a gilded chalice. 

She stopped at a ramshackle lamppost, feet pressing together as her hand wrapped around the slender shaft. She looked towards Mary, expounding: “The lorry comes ‘round about this time. I hitch a ride.” She gave a minuscule wave to the gentleman flipping through a newspaper by the curb, and grinned at the woman who joined them thereafter. 

It was then that Mary realized that they were in the same predicament as several others began to cloister about.

“Oh,” She hummed, surprised. “No train?”

“Terrified of the station. Always a fracas to avert, never enough space…” 

“What about the bus?” 

“You think money grows on trees?”

Mary  _tsked_ , “If only we were headed in the direction of a paying facility.”

“You should be nicer to me,” Anne proclaimed, “hell hath no fury like a Boleyn scorned. And my bad side is not a pretty place.” 

“I’ve seen worse sights.” 

Anne looked over her shoulder at her, the little smile twitching on her lips. “Oh yeah?” 

“Definitely.”

“Then you’ll have no problem kissing my arse.”

Before Mary could retort, a beam flourishing like a springtide rose on her profile, a lorry pulled up to the curb. Anne tipped her head up at the man sitting in the driver’s seat. “You ladies headed to Woolwich by chance?” He smirked.

Mary squinted at the many posters aligning the side of the truck, encouraging men to sign up for war, and women to do their bit as munitionettes. 

“No, _the Opera!_ Open up.”

The gentlemen leaning against the brick wall ambled to the back of the vehicle and popped open the trunk. He proffered his hand to Anne, who neglected it, before extending an offer to Mary. She graciously took his hand, and he helped her step into the back of the congested lorry, sitting beside Anne on stacked, ligneous crates. 

She prinked at her dress as the lorry lurched forth, boxes shifting beneath her weight. In the elision of the moment, she could not help but allow the bubbling excitement to rise to her cheeks. With great enthusiasm did her eyes dart around the trunk, from the gentlemen and his newspaper, to the woman clutching a child to her chest, to the two young girls mirroring Anne and herself by the corner.

It all seemed very rebellious, but pragmatic given the situation at hand. And all the while, not one of the many people cramped in the trunk of the lorry looked at her as if she were a hapless child who needed to be watched over.

A small poke in her side drew her attention away. “Do you have coins on you?” 

“Me?”

Anne gave Mary a stern look. “Yes, you.”

“A few. Not enough to pur—”

“I don’t want your money. But you can’t bring it into the workshops. No hairpins, or bracelets, or anything metallic.” 

“Why?” Questioned she curiously, reaching up to unleash her hair from a pearled barrette. She placed it in her floral reticule, which she situated over her lap, as her hair tumbled over her forehead.

“Risk of explosion,” Anne explained, running her eyes along Mary’s form, checking for any remnants of metal. “No rings?” 

“No,” She assured firmly. “None.”

“Okay.” Her words were spoken slowly, as if she tiptoed around the subject before forgetting it altogether. “Then you should be fine. It’s just a precaution. Give me your purse, and I’ll put it in the contraband storage. We can meet up there. It’s just outside of the Danger Area, near Boothman’s office. He likes to keep his tobacco near, _of course._ ” 

It was not long before the truck stopped in front of a Royal Ordnance, and within a short time, Anne and Mary were clambering out of the trunk and facing Woolwich. Redbrick edifices had capitulated their vibrancy to the soot of an overtaxed fiefdom and the oxidized smokestacks projecting from the factory punctured the fuliginous horizon on which the building resided. 

Cupping her hand over her mouth, Mary swallowed the putrid odor which polluted the air. It tasted like pride. The better part of her conscious told her to turn back, but Anne swiftly strode between the closing gates leading to Woolwich, and thus, Mary had no choice but to follow her, a hand clamped over her nose. 

The sky was bleak and moist as they stepped into the factory, which was brightly lit, and filled with rows and rows of men and women hunching over their desks, masks covering the lower half of their faces. Whistles blew and voices rang around the factory, and such was the noise that one could scarcely discern one’s own thoughts. Although it proved to serve Mary well, who thought of nothing but negativity and innate apprehension at the prospect of spending the next months of her life within this very room. 

Complaining would neither help her secure a job nor the safe return of her brother and fiancee; the former from war and the later from the clutches of the parliament. Lending a hand, however dainty, to the factory’s progression would surely bring a victorious and speedy end to the war which ravaged countries and swallowed families whole. Her brother bowed to his general, Louis to Chamberlain, but this was Mary’s part, and it was something completely and ingloriously her own. 

She had not uprooted to London for naught. She had not borne a rift between she and her sister, she had not bid goodbye to her brother in law, she had not lied to her betrothed for naught. She would preserve and not fail in the face of such disaster.

Looking around, she gazed at the workshops with pale, frightened eyes, peering at all the munition machinery and monstrous pressing machines. A little buy was pulling and pulling right in front of her, several copper caps falling into his workload.

_Oh, she could never do that…_

Turning to Anne, she called out, “Where is Boothman’s office?” 

“ _WHAT!?_ ” Anne called back, over the sound of shouting and machinery. 

“ _WHERE IS BOOTHMAN’S OFFICE!?_ ”"

She took Mary’s hand and pointed to the end of the factory, which led to a small door. Mary nodded, gave her a final look, and departed with a small wave. Anne nodded back, and slipped away to clock in. 

Making a rapid beeline to the door, hands balled at her side, Mary knocked against Boothman’s private office, stepping in once he had called out a terse “enter!” With tentative steps, she padded towards his desk, as he sat down his pen and rose his gaze, giving her only the slightest of recognition. He scratched his balding head, and sat back. His eyes casted downwards to a stack of letters before he tucked away a stray polaroid and looked back at her, several moments later. “Applying for a position, I assume?” 

“Indeed. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Boothman. I have heard many a good thing. In fact, pleased doesn’t cover half of my delight. I am simply _blessed_ to have been given the chance to meet with you this fine morning. May I take a seat?”

“’Tis better if you stand,” He said. “How old are you, girl?” 

She opened her mouth to speak, before clamping her lips shut and smiling tightly, dimples forming by the corner of her mouth. Her slender frame and petite hips were often misleading, making her appear younger than her odd two decades. At last, she relinquished, “Twenty one.” 

He gave a _harrumphing_ sound, not entirely pleased nor displeased by her statement. “Any past experience in munitions?” 

“No, sir. But I’m a quick learner.” 

“ _Excellent._ ” The clerk shifted in his chair, bringing a cigarette to his lips. “A factory,” he began, and she feared as he stood up that he would come near her, but he merely looked towards his certificate on the wall, “Woolwich—in particular—is built for the betterment of everyone concerned. It is a progressive industry. And with progression comes many impediments and risks.”

The reverberating din coming from the factories seemed to pound out a message of doom, but Mary did not allow her fears to override her necessity for a job as Boothman continued to list the many factors involved. “Oh, yes. I am much aware of the dangers affiliated, but truly—” 

“I am not finished.” 

“Oh, of course, sir. Go on.”

“I _was_ , before I was so _rudely_ interrupted—”

“My sincerest of apologies.”

“ _Will you hush up!_ ” 

She flinched as his voice rose, two narrowed, black irises honed on her forehead. Mary gave a little nod, and allowed him to resume his speech liberally. “As I was saying, munitionettes are subjected to many hazardous chemicals on a daily basis—without adequate protection. Not only that, but as you remarked, explosions are not uncommon. But the purpose is imminently clear. If one is unwilling to serve one’s countries in all aspects, one should not bear the title of a ‘ _proud citizen_.’”

“I agree wholeheartedly.” 

His lips tipped upward at her proclamation, and, with her fealty in mind, he sat back down. A sigh escaped her as he lowered his rounded body into the chair. He picked up his pen, and made out to begin writing something. “Who are you, and why have you come?”

“Mary Tudor,” She stifled, and his head jolted to the side. “I have come to work. And ensure the success of my country and make use of myself in all I do. Not unlike many of the women here, I’m sure, but my dedication is deep-rooted and unfailing. I have quick hands, and reflexes like a cat.” 

All of this he wrote down, as if she were a prophetess and he a scribe. “You can start tomorrow, once I’ve a dog-tag and uniform ordered. Do you have means of transportation?”

“Wha— _tomorrow?_ Will I not need training?” 

His lips curled into an unnerving smile, “you said you were a quick learner. We’ll have someone show you how it’s done. Now, Jane Parker — she is a supervisor here at Woolwich — will get you fitted with a cap and gown. You are required to clock in every morning at eight am, and clock out at six. Anything later than eight is unacceptable and anything earlier than six is strictly prohibited. You are permitted twenty minutes for meals. Is that understood? You cannot _jinx_ me into getting out earlier, regardless of what the women will tell you.”

“Yes, sir. Perfectly clear. No tricks.”

“And, should anything happen, whether in the factory or in the perimeter, a green light will shine through all departments. In which case you are instructed to walk to the arches outside of the factory, and wait until further notice.” 

She swallowed, and rang her hands together. “If what should happen, exactly?”

He sat back and folded his fingers over his bulging belly. “That’s up for God to know and us to find out.”

* * *

 

Jane Parker flitted around the closet at a break neck speed, collecting garments and holding them up to Mary’s chest until one deemed to suit, and she forced the bundle of linen in her arms.

“Must I wear this?” Mary frowned, holding up the dress. The dress was accompanied by a white jacket, turban and over-sized Wellingtons for protection.

She ceased her quick movements, looking down at Mary with eyes resembling that of a hawk’s; dark and calculating and almond-shaped. Her eyes were the color of the coal which covered the factory, but not quite as dark as Anne’s. She seemed annoyed, but as the supervisor, a woman no less, Mary knew she had much to do in little time. “Boss’s orders.” 

With a soft smile, Mary promised herself that once the horrible affair was over, she would never in creation step inside a factory again. But her confidence only swelled as she clutched the uniform tighter. 

“Come here, let’s get this sized,” Jane called out to her. 

She followed her voice, padding towards a table covered in anonymous dog tags. Jane arbitrarily reached for one, and held it up to her neck. “Think this will do?” 

She took the necklace and wound it around her neck. “Just so. Do all the women wear these?”

“Uh,” She hummed, granting Mary a tight lipped smile. “Yes. It’s a requirement. In the event of a causality; you’ll need to be identified.”

Her eyes broadened and the cadence of her heart sped up a thousandfold. “Are those, the casualties, frequent? Surely with the little to no training provided women can not be held liable for _accidents._ ” 

“Well,” Jane snorted, “women can not be held liable if they’re _dead._ ”

 

* * *

Training began after Mary was fitted in a cap and gown. Mrs Salisbury, an older woman working in shells, led her to one of the workshops in the back of the factory. The trip seemed endless, for the destination remained a mystery. She had no way to measure how far into the factory they traveled, and the wavy-hair falling from Mrs Salisbury’s head acted as a light house for Mary, as she merely trailed after the woman with ginger steps.

The workshop was barren, save for many a woman and shell, and freezing cold. Mary’s breath manifested before her lips, and her elbows bowed inward to retain heat within her middling frame. In a duo, they traversed to the corner of the garage, setting up station next to a bundle of unfilled shrapnels.

“You might think it’s easy—but it’s not,” Mrs Salisbury declared. “Not at all. Very time consuming and precarious. After all, filling is considered ‘group eight’; geographically positioned so accidents don’t blow the _entire_ factory to smithereens, but one miscalculated step and many will pay. Think, before you make any irresolute movements, who will wear black for _you_?”

Mary momentarily ceased her unsure footing, gaping at the woman’s retreating form.

“I train my girls like I plan to live forever. In my department, there is no failure. The word itself is a nonstarter.” Standing akimbo, she whirled around to face Mary. “Are you ready to begin?”

“As I’ll ever be.” 

“Good.” Mrs Salisbury dragged a shell case, which appeared to be around seventy to eighty pounds, closer. “Here, stand here.” 

Mary did as ordered, and stood in front of the shell. The case stood at a comfortable height for her, just a touch above her knee. 

She handed her a tin of powder, a broom handle and mallet. “Pour just a smidgen in,” She murmured, and Mary did so, tipping the tin over the shell’s opening. “Now stem it down, bit by bit.” She funneled a pint of powder into the shell, before pushing it down with the broom. “Keep doing that until it’s full.”

Mary’s head snapped upwards, “Until it’s full? Why, that would take forever!” 

She laughed preposterously, “You want our men to fire half-filled shells? Once you finish that I’ll show you how to drill holes… but don’t expect to be done for another _few hours._ ”

 

* * *

 

Anne’s face was flushed as she approached Mary at the terminal. She had stripped out of her uniform and relinquished her long, dusky hair from the strains of her cap; and both items hadthus been hung over her arm. “Good day?”

Mary had not seen Anne since the early hours of the morning, as she had been ushered into one of the many arbitrary canteens during lunch. Since she had been told there were more than twenty on site, and did not fancy herself into believing she would meet up with Anne, but knew they would see each other after work in the contrabands. 

She shrugged, an air of nonchalant associated with her words, “I got the job.” 

“I knew you would.”

“How was your day? You look—.”

She waved her hand. “You don’t have to say anything. It was about as good a day as I look, I’m afraid. Let’s go home. I bet you Joan has a pie in the oven for Eliza.” 

Mary nodded, “what is it that you do, anyway?”

“Loading. I fill up the gains,” She gestured to her paled cheeks, “with TNT. All in a day’s work. And you?”

“Shells. Today, anyway. Either filling or gauging; whatever Boothman and Salisbury think I’m best fit for.” For the next several weeks she would be filling and gauging, and in the next round she would be working on gun cotton, and then cordite.

“Which do you prefer? I started with filling, too.”

“Gauging. I’m not patient enough to fill, admittedly,” she chuckled. “How is loading?” 

“Other than the acidic fumes rising into the air and handling TNT on the daily, it’s not _so_ bad.” Mary bit down on her lip. “There’s an element of trust here. We have trust each other, and ourselves, enough to do it. And trust that our soldiers won’t make us toil in vain. So, it could be worse… I could hate everyone in this building.” 

The women slipped through the doors of Woolwich, ambulating across the polluted lawn. “I’m guessing Boothman was concise? You don’t look at all nervous.” 

“Well, he said there were risks. I knew that much,” Mary explained, slinging her purse over her shoulder, “hey, wait up! Why are you going so quickly?” 

Something had shut off in Anne; something unretrievable. She began to race in the direction of the road, her lithe legs carrying her much quicker than Mary was able to dart. “The lorry will be waiting for us, best hurry!”

* * *

 

** 15 February 1940. Sunday. **

It was not until the following Saturday that Eliza regained her spirits and was able to trek into the dining room without a torrent of tears succeeding her lightened footstep. But the redness around her eyes was apparent and as her roommate Mary knew she spent half of the night praying, and the other half tossing and turning in her bedsheets. She hardly ate a bite and did not sing as she readied herself for the day, if the morning sun was so lucky as to warm her skin, for she scarcely pulled herself out of bed. Many of the girls put together their rations and paychecks to purchase Eliza trinkets in the hopes of rejuvenating her habitually cheery mien, but it was to no avail. She refused any and all benefactions offered in reparation for the loss of her son—which Mary thought was _just brazen_. 

However, on Mary’s end, life had treated her kindly. Her mother’s birthday came and went, and she commemorated her life with a lit candle, waiting for a letter which would never come from her brother. Work was genuinely liberating, and it continued as usual. With a rise of employment in the last week alone, her duties had been much simplified. Catherine admonished her that the ache associated with working twelve hours, hunching over a shell and repeating the process day in and day out, was soon to come; but she paid no mind to the woman who’d been working in munitions for the past year and glided through her first shifts.

But she had spent all week wondering if Britain was on the precipice of _something_ , or if it had already begun the fall. 

It was not until the advent of Sunday morning did she fully register the ache Catherine spoke so _highly_ of gnawing at her spine. She slumped at the breakfast table, barely noting Joan’s entrance, and the bundle of letters resting in the berth of her arms. “Mail!” She cried, beginning to distribute the contents of her basket. 

Mary’s eyes washed over Eliza’s altered disposition. She stood a little straighter, forced mouthfuls of food down her gullet, and averted many a stare. After all, the last time she had received a letter she lost her son. 

Half-suspecting she would not receive one herself, Mary looked down at her porridge and attempted to shove it down. Though she was famished to say the least, Joan’s cooking left much to be desired.

“And here, for you,” Joan murmured, setting an envelope by her bowl. “Your lover boy, perhaps? Eat up, child.”

Mary frowned, looking down at the missive with drawn brows. She had not written to Louis since he mentioned the idea of children. Rude as it was keeping him waiting, she couldn’t find it within her to play the part of his dutiful betrothed. And so she crossed out the idea of her sender being her ‘lover boy’—for he was no boy at all—and held her breath as she flipped the envelope over. The only personages left were her dear siblings, and she did not count her blessings as to think Henry would write her back so soon… _or at all._

 

> _CPL CHARLES BRANDON. — 49833904_
> 
> _Postmaster YORK-U.K..; Passed by Army examiner #38624_

Abundantly perplexed, Mary lowered her spoon and reached for the letter; slender fingertips curling around the edges. 

“Well, is it?” Joan asked. “Open it up.” 

“I… I truly don’t know. Are you sure this was addressed to me and not Catherine? It says Br—” 

Joan pointed to her name on the right hand corner of the envelope. Her name was printed in refined ink. “But it also says yours. Know anyone from York?”

“My mother was from York.”

“Is it your mum, then?” 

“No, she’s long gone. The only other person—” Mary’s head shot upwards, looking up at Joan with large, doe eyes. “My brother is stationed near York.” 

“Well, open it!” Joan encouraged. 

“My brother’s name is Henry. This is not him—he’s not… Oh, God— _oh God_.” 

For a split moment, her mind told her that her brother was dead, and this Charles Brandon was writing to tell her that he died. And then her hand stilled. She couldn’t open it.

Eliza’s chair scraped against the wooden floor as she scuttled away.

Joan dropped in the seat next to her, clasping a warm hand over her shoulder. “Well…?”

As if she’d been burned, Mary pulled away and ripped open the letter, scanning her eyes for any imminent sorries and condolences. 

But there were none. Only the _hieroglyphic_ penmanship of a man who had never been edified how to write. 

Despite this, a breath of relief cascaded from her mouth. “He’s not dead.” 

“Oh, praise be to Him; we don’t need another death ‘round here. Good lass,” She hummed, and stood up, leaving Mary to her puzzling note. Relief too crossed her face. “You tell me if you wan’t anymore of that oatmeal. You can have all you want.”

“Will do, Joan,” Mary said, eyes trained on the nearly incomprehensible words.

_Had this person never been taught to write? Or address a proper letter?_

More carefully, she read through the letter, her irritation growing as the unbelievably hubristic words unfurled on the olive-skinned paper.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Blount = Henry FitzRoy (not Henry Tudor's child this time!)


	3. Chapter 3

**15 February 1940**

 

Anne and Mary sat on their respective beds, legs folded together, with stacks of paper sprawled out before them. Anne had received heaps that Sunday, reaping in over four letters from her sister,  mother, and two from her brother; while Mary was left to decipher Charles Brandon’s brief missive, and mull over the uncertain whereabouts of her brother. She re-read Charles’ words countless of times, playing a card of nonchalance as Anne raised her brow and questioned her obsession with the letter, but Mary herself remained mute. Her guess was as good as Anne’s. 

She scanned the letter once more before calling it quits. 

**Ms Mary Rose,**

 

> For someone who claims I am their beloved, I would expect you to know that I absolutely loathe scarves. But, they seem to make an adequate stand-in for pillows, which we lack greatly—so you needn’t worry on behalf of your pitiful attempts at crocheting. However, I am much inclined to believe you did not intend to write to me, rather your brother, Henry Tudor? Unfortunately, I am no carrier pigeon, and even if I had the will to pass along your missive, your brother is temporarily inaccessible. Have no fear, he is merely working out final preparations until we embark to —————… 

Not for the first time, she paused as her eyes danced along the shambolic print. A thick, black marker had obnubilated his succeeding words with immaculate dedication. Even if she were to squint, she could not make out words followed “embark to.” 

> …and will make a safe and speedy return. I must admit, on the contrary, I quite enjoyed hearing my name being called out at roll-call. Many of the men here believe my bird has finally abandoned me, as it has been many months since I last heard word of life ‘on the other side’, as we are disposed to call it. Generally, after letters are dispersed, someone will curse out “ _ dammit, _ Diana got married!” But on my end, I was quite surprised to see that the transmitter of my letter was none other than my fellow soldier’s sister. And an irritable one at that. 
> 
> While London is so lovely, you must know that the other side of the coin isn’t quite so glamorous… and that your brother leads an exceptionally busy existence. It surprises me that you think you’d be able to entice him into apportioning a part of his hard-pressed day to speak with someone who’d rather spend her time listing off a row demeaning adjectives. Not only that, but by guilting him into the endeavor. To each their own. 
> 
> Despite what little concern it is of mine, I must broach the subject on your decision to ignore the potency the V.A.D. has on a woman, and the momentous effect one woman many have on many soldiers. Perhaps as the war ensues, you will choose to rethink your decision. A pretty face and handshake makes all the difference, in my opinion, and you would be doing your country a great disservice by spurning it all together without giving it a right and proper second thought. 
> 
> Since this letter landed in MY hands, I do have a few requests to finish my reply off (since you did ask). Tabloids, particularly of the variety which feature pin-up girls, any baked goods which will not be destroyed or pulverized in postal, and a bottle of cologne. We lack any tolerable odors. This, of course, is assuming you write back—which I hope you do. Unfortunately I must now bid you adieu. It is late and we are up before dawn. 

**Respectfully,**

**Charles Brandon.**

> **P.S.** I have never had the pleasure of reading handwriting worse than mine. Are you the ugly duckling of the Tudor brood?

The termination of his note had made her particularly crossed, but all in all the esemplastic letter caused her to be apoplectic with rage.

Did he truly think her ugly because of her inadequate handwriting? If so, he must have been  _ hideous _ . She pitied her brother for having to bear this man’s company, and had little wonder as to why he had never mentioned him afore. She thanked God for his many provisions, and for granting Henry a disposition more endurable than the company he kept. 

“Mary,” Anne groaned, “each time you read that letter, you get angrier. Perhaps set it down.” 

A shield of red falling around her face, Mary looked up at Anne, brows pulling together pitifully. “Fine,” she conceded, and tucked the envelope beneath her pillow. “What are you doing?” 

“Writing. I write to all the boys I knew. Even if they don’t respond right away, it makes their week.” Anne noted that Mary had leaned in considerably. “Do you… want to write one? I have a few left.” 

It would take her mind off Charles. But then again, it also had the potential to deceive a hopeful individual, as Charles had done to her, by leading her to believe her brother had either written to her or died. Nevertheless, she found herself slipping off her bed and traversing to Anne’s, settling herself at the foot of the mattress. “Who do you have for me?” 

“Well, there’s Hennrick Percy, he was a suitor of mine years ago, but he’s become a close crony… Mark Smeaton, who was a musician before the war…” She shifted through more addresses. “Or, do you have anyone you want to write to? I could add them to my list.” 

“Well, no,” She sighed, tucking her hair behind her ear, “but I’d love it if my brother were to respond to me. It’s been a month now.”

“That wasn’t him?” She suggested to the letter under Mary’s pillow. 

“No. Some brute soldier. I don’t want to speak of it.”  

Anne tapped the tip of her pen against her notebook. “So…” She trailed off, teeth puncturing her bottom lip. 

A thought—a brilliant thought—crossed her mind. Surely, part of Henry’s reason for not writing to his most beloved sister would be his homesickness. Never had there been a day when Henry wanted to leave the Tudor home for more than a week. He longed too greatly for his mother’s warmth and Margaret’s chiding, Arthur’s rivalry, and Mary’s selfish sweetness. Being halfway across the realm must have situated him in a slump of which he could find no exit from. Mary at last deduced, he must have been depressed. And since his pride was the biggest factor at all, he wouldn’t dare tell his youngest sibling that. After all, he had dreamed of war since he was a young boy. 

But he might reply to Anne, for God knew that man could never deny a woman. On Mary’s part, she didn’t mind if he was writing to her or to Anne, she merely wanted his existence to be made known. 

It would comfort her, to say the least. 

“You know what? Add him. Maybe you’ll have more luck than me; I’ll give you the address. And I’ll take care of Hennrick and Mark for you.”  

“ _ Merveilleux. _ A little change of prose will do them well. What did you say your brother’s name was?” 

“I didn’t,” she remarked. “Henry. Henry Tudor.”

Anne scribbled down his name, drawing a minute star next to it. 

“What’s that for?” 

“He’s your brother,”  Anne answered, a coy smile upon her lips, “I’ll be _extra sweet._ ”

“If anything, he needs to be kicked into shape,” Mary pointed out. “But thank you, I appreciate it. I doubt my sister’s sent him anything. And if she has, he hasn’t responded—I don’t think.”

Why would he? Mary had broken a large fission between brother and sister when she decided to move to London. She was meant to follow Margaret and her husband James for a year in Surrey, until things quieted down on the front; sipping cocktails off the terrace, and taking breakfast in bed— doing nothing. But sitting around idly, twiddling her thumbs and willing a war to end, was not in Mary’s repertoire. She had implored on her hands and knees to move to London until neither Margaret nor Henry could maintain the stamina refuse her. And to add to their burden, Louis had to also acquiescence to the whole surly scheme, which came at no easy feat, and had come at the price of her liberty. For as soon as Chamberlain announced Germany’s defeat, she would be wed. 

Anne nodded. “Oh, this shall be fun. Does he have a very good sense of humour?” 

A cheshire cat grin formed on Mary’s mouth. “Once upon a time. It’s deep within. Are you up for the challenge?”

“I could charm a bird out of a tree. Of course I am.”

 

* * *

**5 August 1932**

 

Once or twice a month, Henry would take Mary dancing, and if she was lucky, she’d coerce him into taking her to see a picture, although she was seldom so lucky. Mostly, they socialized with his friends, who were all older than him and stared down at her as if she were a gazelle and they were beasts in the midst of a wizened savannah. They would only dance for fifteen minutes or so, Mary’s arms wound about Henry’s neck as he spun her, before they slipped into an emptied backstreet and smoked. Henry would look back at her when they lit up a cigarette, as if to ask:  _ you’re not going to tell, are you? _ And Mary would shake her head, vermillion curls bobbing around her neck as she worried her dress beneath her fingers and her lip underneath her teeth. 

She despised waiting about, and wanted to dance, and sing, and be merry again; but her careful gaze remained on her brother until he finished up. She was a good dancer, so Henry’s friends said, but Henry also told her that they wanted to know what was under her skirt as they drove home.

“Hosiery,” She’d say, her chin lifted to the rank of a Queen, as the blokes erupted into a fit of boyish giggles. “What else?”

One of them would cry out, “My hand!” And the rest would curl on the floor, their sides splitting with laughter — Henry’s foot firmly lodged between the bellwether’s ribcage. 

It wasn’t until Margaret explained what they meant did Mary truly stand her ground. The older she got, their stares emboldened, and her retorts became more and more audacious — with of course, the additional patronage of her elder sister, and the watchful eye of Henry Tudor. 

Because they were Tudors. Apart, nearly useless. But together and the world would be putty at their feet.

 

* * *

**16 February 1940**

 

On Sunday evening, Mary threw Charles’ letter away. She had written two missives since that morning, one to Mark Smeaton and one to her fiancé Louis, and she had quite made up her mind on Charles’ surly letter… The stipulation rang thus: she did not, under any given circumstances, give two figs about him or his crass, vulgar,  _ intolerable  _ demands; and his unsophisticated, immature script. 

She dodged questions from Joan at supper, conversed in the French tongue with Anne, and forced a shabby dinner down her throat; falling asleep, her hands clasped under her cheek, with his words firmly ingrained in her mind, thoughts churning like revolutionary mills, dark and sooty.

 

* * *

 

 

He was a mountain of a man, with a face as wide as Elizabeth Woodville’s ancient oak; cordiform shapes and initials carved in his wrinkled, coarse skin. His face was as round and pale as the moon caught in the uppermost branches, shining down on the birds who sang and the children as they climbed for the sun but met only the ink-spilled sky. He knelt down, swiftly and determinedly. She knew what his intentions were and stood her ground, as she had practiced her reaction many times, and had also upchucked the contents of her stomach that morning in preparation. 

Her eyes flitted to the door. Her father stood there, one eye peering at her, the other hidden behind grand Turkish curtains. He nodded. She smiled weakly. 

She was soon to be wed, with nothing but dread lingering in her stomach.

Would he get down on his knee? She worried if he did, he would not get back up.

She reached for his elbows, and held him upright. Like an ox stuck in a ditch, she could only imagine the thickest of ropes hauling him upwards, snapping his bones like the twigs which held the moon in the trees. “Louis… My darling. You need not—.” 

Louis obeyed, his knees nearly buckling, and stood a few feet away from her as he reached into his back pocket and produced a little box, covered in velveteen, black satin. “Mary,” He grinned, and she began to fear that his full face might come down upon hers, to pepper her cheek in kisses, as he did with her hands. But now, with her imminent acquiesce in mind, no barriers stopped him from caressing her lips with his own. Only the thought of her father’s lingering figure. 

She swallowed thickly, and averted her eyes from her father, the falling footsteps of her siblings sounding in the corridor. By the time her eyes met Louis’, they were glossed over. She realized then, this was what her life was to be until death did they part. Always shyly stepping away, creating a breadth of distance between them. Side-stepping embraces and parrying intimate gazes.

“Mary, my fairest, my love, my lifeline. You must by now know of my feelings, which have all been borne out of the kindness and joy you have shown me in these past months. These reciprocated feelings have also propelled me to do that I desire, here, in front of your father and in front of the King of all Kings. To ask that you share a lifetime with me as my bride.”

Just as time had taken her liberty, it had also taken her words from her. She could find nothing to say to him, and only observed with tentative, careful eyes as his tongue deciphered his succeeding words. There was a silence between them that was deafening and pinpointed. Her gaze fell to the box, not daring to lift her gaze any higher, lest his eyes be honed on hers—genuine and true and searching for some scintilla of love on her part. 

_ Louis, I am unworthy. Flee while you can and make an enemy of my father before he can ever swindle you out of your money again. I am a pawn; not your beloved. _

Her vision obscured as her eyes lowered; sight distorting. The box he held, containing the ring which would successfully bond her current life with her future, began to morph into something thinner, broader, lighter… in front of her very eyes. A light and diaphanous material, almost like the papyrus her father had once brought home for her from the East—yellowed and rough, brittle and cracked. It was a sight which was welcomed less than the ring, for Charles Brandon’s name was printed on it as clear as day.

Louis seemed to know what he was doing, stout fingers capering over the face of the vellum-like paper, running over and displaying Charles’ furled, sloppy signature. He unfolded the wad of crumpled paper, painted words shining in his eyes as he looked downwards at it. A smile tipped the corners of his lips. It was an effect she had never seen him produce—something cannily akin to a smirk. 

And it was the smirk that devoured his features in one, violent famine.

Instead of a man, Louis became a shadow— a phantasm. He was haunting her while he was still alive, and though she could not see his eyes, his sharp little gaze pierced and interrogated her skin. She yelled, but heard nothing. She reached, but felt nothing.

“Mistress Mary,  _ quite contrary. _ ” His words were spoken in a grating trill, sending a glacial bolt down her spine. “ _ How does your garden grow? _ ” And suddenly, the voice was no longer his. He leaned down, a silhouette of a man, his breath foul as ever. His lips, once pouty and thin, now broad and voluptuous, lowered to the shell of her ear. “A blooming, flourishing rose Your Majesty is. Red and sanguine. Like  **blood** .

Whose, I wonder?”    
  


* * *

 

 

Mary awoke with a great lurch, beads of perspiration trickling down her porcelain skin. Her night gown hung heavily from her bones as they shook and rattled against her skin. She could not fathom what time it was, but she hoisted herself to her knees and peered out the window, watching as the morning sun slowly lifted into the sky, like an egg yolk breaking over a blue platter. Her ears rung with a terrible pain, not ceasing until she boxed her palms over her head, folding herself into a minuscule package.

Damn him, that odious Charles Brandon, for permeating her dreams, and damn Louis for never kneeling down to her as she had deserved.

She ripped herself out of bed and ran a pitcher of cool water down her naked form, washing away at the sweat and tension borne from her nightmare.

 

* * *

 

 

On the following morrow, waited with Anne by the lorry, and checked in at Woolwich at eight am.  As she walked in, Jane walked out. “Going so soon?”

“Never left,” Jane retorted, and Mary stopped to look back at her, before being ushered into the dressing rooms. 

Hours passed slowly, and again she could not help but feel like something was bound to happen, and anticipation built in the platelets at her wrist with each move she made. But she had become painfully aware of the hot breath fanning against her fair complexion, and forced herself to concentrate on the monotonous verisimilitude of life. Mrs Salisbury watched over her shoulder as she topped up the shrapnels with precision not yet cultivated; sometimes tsking, other times canting her head, taking the broom and finishing the job off herself. Mary could tell she was not much good at it, but Ms Salisbury acted as if there were no worse hands than her own, and lambasted her at the slightest dodder of her feet.  

_ It was only a wee repetition, how bad could she be? _

Mary had ascertained Anne’s location during lunch, and sat beside her in a canteen overlooking Woolwich’s hilly landscape. She ate little, and rested her chin against her upturned palm, simply sighing at each remark directed towards her. She could not find the will to start a conversation, and averted her attention to matters other than him, who she refused to honor with a name.

She was still largely disquieted by the events of that morning. Her fiancee’s distorted face and unusual voice continued to replay in her mind, offering no reprieve as she attempted to reach Salisbury’s difficult standards. And worse of all, his name would not leave her train of thought. It was like Charles Brandon was the conductor and she the poor caboose, who was only dragged along for the ride. 

Several hours after, Mr Boothman came out from his administration office, his hands dug deeply into his woolen pockets. “Payday will be Friday,” he called out, snappishly curt, and escaped back into his quarters, like a rat shying from the light. Many of the women began to cheer, but their joy was subdued by the sound of over-worked machinery and the occasional groan. Later, Jane Parker scurried up to the podium, and called out: “a football match will be held three weeks from now for all those interested. Teams will be drawn up in the days to come.”

“What’s that for?” Mary asked. 

“The girls put on a little show every now and then. Back to work, now,” Mrs Salisbury ordered, squeezing her shoulder. “Don’t take your eyes off the shell.” Mary uttered a quick ‘yes m’am’ and returned to her duties. 

It was not until ninth hour of the same evening did Mary slump into her boarding room, making a dash for the trash bin. On her knees, she shuffled through tissues and debris. She picked Charles’ letters out of the bin, inspected it, and flattened it out against her desk. She had resolved to keep it, but only as a thorn in Henry’s side. A mean of humiliation once he returned. 

Something to make her laugh.

 

* * *

 

He was sure of nothing other than the imminent descent of the republic, and the fact that Mary Tudor would run his business into ruins. 

He watched her and the Salisbury bitch slave over a 3.7 shell, filling it with exceptionally explosive cordite, as he clambered onto the rostrum. When he told Salisbury to place her in an easy division—he did not mean cordite. “Payday will be Friday,” he announced, his voice guttural as be backed away, eyes never having left one of his most recent workers. He fished his jammed hand around in his pocket, and walked back into his office.

Met with the face of the woman who left bright and early this morning, Boothman stopped in his tracks. “Jane,” He stated, baffled and surprised to see the woman loitering around in his quarters. “What on earth…”

_She left this morning, hadn’t she? Oh, this whole sordid ordeal has befuddled my mind…_

“What are you doing here, woman?” 

“I forgot some things,” She explained, slipping her arms through her jacket. “Need anything before I go?”

Boothman narrowed his eyes at her, crossed with Jane for putting his mind in such a state of disorder. 

It had been an arduous decision indeed, appointing dutiful Jane the position of supervisor at Woolwich, on account of her sex alone. Had she been born a man, Jane Parker might even have surpassed his own ability, but that was neither here nor there. Many of the factory’s patronages never fortified his idea to raise her, but because of her and his decision, his facility ran as smoothly as it ever had. Boothman had known Jane for virtually as long as he operated the factory, and she had since become one of his closest companions. It was only right that the position be bequeathed to her, for the was the mistress of the substructure. 

They shared a special bond, one which could be neither described nor fractured. He wished for her best, and hoped her ‘best’ intertwined with the future of Woolwich. 

“No.” He sat down in his chair. “Wait, Jane—I must ask, for my conscious drives me mad. How is our newest pupil, Mary, doing? I saw a slight struggle just now.” 

“I haven’t the foggiest. You should check in with Salisbury; she’s instructing her after all. Why?”

“Oh, I just thought you knew. You are generally so up to date… oh, do forget it.” 

Jane’s face hardened to stone. She approached Boothman, forcing a finger in his face. “No.” 

“No? I don’t know what gives you the slightest idea you can order me about—”

“You know what I mean. She’s a babe in the cradle. Leave her be.”

For a moment, his brows drew together, before realization crossed his expression. “Oh, Jane, heavens! Some propriety please. I am merely overlooking the progress of my factory.”

She crossed her arms over her supple chest. “You must understand the difficulty I have in believing you. I will not deal with another Boleyn girl, I’ll have you know, Alexander.”  

Boothman shuttered. Thoughts of the woman he once knew never left him contended. Seeing her sister go in and out of his factory every day even less so. “There shall never be another accident like that again, for as long as I shall live. And anyway, as you said, she’s too young. Perhaps too young to work in a factory.”

Jane objected, “We employ many women younger than her. We could use their youthful drives to our advantage. Do you disagree?” 

“I… Well. Oh, but besides the advantage, besides the gain and ulterior motives.” 

She settled herself in a seat, clearly intrigued. “I wasn’t aware you had an agenda beyond those facets.” 

He gave her a pointed stare as he leaned back, making himself comfortable. Crossing his ankles, he spoke gently, “It does not rear its ugly head often—but yes, I do.” 

“Boothman, you are not the Messiah—and I am not a shoulder to cry on. You best stop speaking in parables and tell me what’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours. If there’s a problem to be had, a rat to sniff out, I will get rid of it.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that, as I always do.” 

He strummed his fingers against his cleft chin. If anything should happen to Mary Tudor, Valois would put a speedy and resolute end to his company, and personally see an end to his career. After all he did to get where he was, Boothman could not allow that to happen. But one look at his ledger and Woolwich casualties seemed to increase. Injuries were at an all time high. If he could not protect his prized Marianne Boleyn from the dangers of Woolwich, he certainly could not protect Mary Tudor. One thread of that ruby hair of hers in the wrong spot at the right time, one minuscule spark, one apprehensive thought… and she would be done for. Only a dog-tag left on the cold floor.

Not even a trace of blood. 

A chill raced up his spine, causing him to straighten his posture and gooseflesh to rise upon his calloused skin.  

He had attempted to be as crude and sharp-tongued as possible, eschewing Mary’s mind from the possibility of working at a factory if she were to be the wife of one of the wealthiest men in England. But to no avail. She was almost as determined and presumptive as that witless fiancee of hers. 

“Oh, a messiah now? That’s a step up from ‘dunce.’” 

“It’s the least I could do to get your attention. Where are your thoughts, sir?” 

He rolled his head to the side, as an idea which had fermented in his teeming mind for sometime at last unfurled upon his tongue. “They say non believers have no conscious, you know?” She nodded her head. “I like to think that. It makes doing bad things easier on a gentle spirit. But whatever they tell you, war doesn’t break out from nonbelievers. They don’t believe in anything enough to fall for it. Much less fight for it. Do you believe in God, Jane?”

Jane’s eyes narrowed as he rambled on, not understanding his point forthwith. “No, not particularly. Not after all that’s happened.”

Boothman simply grinned. “Good. We can’t have Him buzzing around in your head if you’re going to help me. We’ll meet tomorrow, then. Come in early and we’ll talk.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles letter was censored, so that's why I didn't put Henry's location, but he's a lot nearer to Mary than she thinks... I have a list of things soldiers can't put on letters, so that'll be making appearances in the following chapters.
> 
> Sorry for the cliff-hanger! But the next chapter is so juicy with drama, I couldn't continue.


End file.
